


Executive Access

by summerstorm



Category: Community
Genre: Desk, Established Relationship, F/F, PWP, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-29
Updated: 2011-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-15 03:39:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're choosing grading papers over punctuality," Britta says, nodding in that mock-impressed way. "I wish I could say I'm surprised."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Executive Access

**Author's Note:**

> For the Porn Battle XI, using the prompts office hours, skirts, smirk. If you want context, I think this works as a deleted scene for any of my Britta/Slater getting-together fics; it contradicts something in Make Me Call Again, but Britta's pretty contradictory herself and that's actually the backstory I had in mind as I wrote this.

Michelle has seven papers to go when she hears a soft, arrhythmic knock on the door. She looks up absently, expecting it to be another student hoping she'll still be in even though her office hours ended nearly an hour ago, and—well, the student part is right. It's just not one of hers, and it's definitely not one who's just hoping Michelle will be in. They were supposed to meet by Michelle's car ten minutes ago, and Britta knows her schedule well enough at this point to check her office first thing if she's taking longer than expected.

"Hey," Michelle says. "I'm just finishing up with this."

"You're choosing grading papers over punctuality," Britta says, nodding in that mock-impressed way. "I wish I could say I'm surprised."

Michelle huffs out a laugh. "I'll be done in a sec, I just need five more minutes. You don't have to stand there; you can sit down if you want."

Britta makes a considering little pout, glance hopping around the room and then steadily from the doorknob to Michelle's face. "Should I close the—"

Michelle doesn't care, so she raises a hand dismissively. Britta closes the door almost all the way before changing her mind and holding it in place a couple of inches away from the frame.

"How many real minutes to the imaginary minute are we talking about here? Three? Five? Ten?" Britta crosses the room and flops down on the couch. "If it's more than ten, you lose the right to point out I slept in for an extra two hours next time I say I'm going to get out of bed in five minutes."

"I'll take that risk," says Michelle, and focuses again on the paper she's grading.

At least she tries to. Every couple of paragraphs she reads, there's some kind of noise: Britta shifting in place, changing position, crossing her legs, uncrossing her legs, her feet shuffling on the floor—and Michelle knows what all the noises are exactly because she unconsciously looks up every time she hears them.

She makes it through one page without distractions before Britta gives up on staying still and just rises to her feet. She steps over to the other side of the office, where all the bookshelves are, and starts looking through them. Michelle lifts her chin and follows Britta with her eyes until Britta settles before the research shelf. There's nothing there Michelle's worried about Britta seeing—there's nothing in the entire office Michelle's worried about Britta seeing, but that particular shelf is full of long and boring documents that Britta cannot possibly want to talk about, which bodes well for Michelle's goal of focusing on the task at hand.

The sound of footsteps isn't as distracting as the couch screeching, and Michelle makes steady progress.

At one point, Britta says, "I haven't taken a good look at your office since..." Something catches in her throat; she backtracks and, in a newly convinced tone, finishes: "In a really long time."

Michelle doesn't even look back; it's an idle thought, easy to hear and move on from.

"Oh, look, it looks like it never lost its head," Britta says chirpily.

Michelle looks up just in time to see her leave the trophy she picked up back on the shelf. "That was _you_?"

Britta turns her head for a split second before looking at the shelf again, dodging Michelle's gaze. She doesn't answer.

"Britta."

"It was a moment of weakness." Britta holds her head high as she faces Michelle again, eyebrows slightly raised, defensive. "And we both know you know _all_ about moments of weakness."

Michelle feels her jaw fall just a little. "We'd barely even met," she points out, voice high by the end.

The careless shrug Britta offers isn't very convincing; Michelle watches for a moment longer as Britta turns back to the shelves and begins to inspect what she hadn't yet. Once it seems like Britta's occupied enough to stop distracting her, Michelle goes back to grading.

The quiet doesn't last very long. The next time Michelle hears Britta's footsteps, they stop just beside her chair, Britta turning on her heels to lean back against Michelle's desk, half sitting on it.

"You're getting in the way of my elbow," Michelle points out kindly. Britta doesn't move. "Okay," Michelle says, and chooses to try to ignore Britta. She mostly succeeds, too, at least until Britta takes her hands off the desk and places them on her thighs instead. Michelle shouldn't even be aware of that, but it's a small desk and Britta's sitting on the edges of Michelle's line of vision.

It's nowhere near the most openly distracting thing Britta's done since she got here, but it's something Michelle can't shed as easily as shifting and shuffling and sitting and standing. When she averts her eyes, she's still thinking about it.

She's had classes for the last six hours with only a thirty-minute lunch break a couple of hours ago; it's nearly six PM, the sun is almost done setting outside, and she was looking forward to ordering in pizza and watching TV and not thinking about mathematical formulae for the remainder of the evening.

Now, however, instead of patiently waiting for proper lethargy, Michelle feels like her body's starting to wake up, and her mind is going places it shouldn't when it should be concentrating on finishing her work for the day so she can _leave_.

She stares down at the truly atrocious font laughing at her from her desk. She reads one sentence. She reads it again. She reads it again, three, four times.

It's useless. It's freaking useless. She lets out a long-suffering sigh. Five seconds. She's giving herself five seconds, and then she's going back to grading.

She pushes her chair back and gets up to close the door; when she gets back to her desk, Britta's exactly where Michelle left her. Michelle hooks her finger in the belt loop on the side of Britta's jeans and steps in closer, holding Britta's hips and pushing a knee against the drawers, between Britta's legs. Britta looks up at her, the beginning of a smirk forming on her mouth; Michelle leans it to kiss her before Britta's expression can stretch all the way to annoying.

Britta smiles, pleased, against Michelle's mouth, and responds easily, licking Michelle's lips apart and taking over, the kiss measured and purposeful and not serving at all to take the edge off.

Michelle forces herself to step back, saying, "I really have to finish grading these papers," and then forces herself to take her hands off Britta's legs.

"That's fine," Britta says sweetly, all mock innocence. Michelle raises an eyebrow, but doesn't say anything; in situations like this, it's better not to engage. She goes to sit down, but Britta reaches for her hips. "Just a second," she requests, and Michelle shrugs her approval.

The regret comes belatedly, when she realizes Britta's dragging her panties down through the fabric of her skirt, thumbs digging into the sides of her thighs until her panties are loose enough around her knees for gravity alone to take them the rest of the way to the floor. Michelle raises an eyebrow; Britta's face doesn't betray anything, and Michelle figures it's better to admit defeat than fight Britta.

She steps out of her underwear as Britta says, "You locked the door, didn't you?" It sounds a little bit like she's blaming Michelle for getting herself into this.

"Not for—whatever it is you're hoping to achieve here," Michelle attempts to say firmly, but the authority in her tone fizzles out by the end, mostly because Britta drops to her knees around 'hoping' and crawls under Michelle's desk.

"You should sit down," Britta encourages her, the smile on her face tight, forced in the way that tells Michelle this is doing more for Britta than Britta's letting on, "I hear this is a popular fantasy."

Incredulously, Michelle echoes, "You hear?"

"I thought you had papers to grade," Britta says, sounding impatient.

Michelle begins to mirror the _I thought..._ , meaning to point out something Britta's rattled off a time or two about how it's not only abuse of power that's "icky," but also anything that could be misconstrued as abusing someone's power, even if Michelle really has no authority whatsoever over Britta. Of course, that reminds Michelle that she has no authority whatsoever over Britta, and if Britta wants to go down on her under her office desk, that's entirely her prerogative.

Michelle draws her chair closer and feels Britta's hands on her thighs as she sits down, fingers roughly tugging her skirt up high. By the time she settles in the chair, it's skin that touches the seat, and Michelle leans back for a moment, hands on the arms of the chair, gathering her thoughts, first, and sneaking a glance at Britta.

Britta's jeans are ripped at the bottom of the thigh, and the opening shows more skin now the fabric's stretching to cover her bent knees. Michelle has to talk herself into looking away, and does so slowly enough that she doesn't miss Britta's smirk as she brings her gaze as close to the surface of her desk as it'll go. She slides the chair a little further into the desk, carefully, and grabs a pen. She keeps her legs tucked together until Britta's thumbs dig into the inside of her knees, pushing them apart, her hair soft on Michelle's skin as she ducks her head between Michelle's legs, biting softly at the inside of her thigh and working her way up.

Michelle thinks she can still get some work done, at least for a few minutes, so she tries to concentrate on what she's supposed to be reading. She tries to focus even as Britta's fingers spread her open and she feels the slippery pressure of Britta's tongue mapping her out, skirting around her clit, just close enough to take her the rest of the way to inappropriately turned on in seconds flat.

In an attempt to stay metaphorically on top of things, she flings a leg over Britta's shoulder and returns to reading. It goes surprisingly well for a while; instead of distracting Michelle to the point of incapacitation, the laps of Britta's tongue raise her energy levels, bringing an alertness to her mind that wasn't there before and that allows her to read and come up with concise ways to correct things even faster.

As she transfers the assignment she just dealt with to the pile to her left, she drops her pen on her desk, and it clinks against the other ones, loud in the empty room. Britta moans, suddenly.

Michelle doesn't know how it hadn't before, but it's only now that the implications of what they're doing click in her mind. She has a student—not hers, she reminds herself, not hers—under her desk; she's a _professor_ and she has a student under her desk eating her out.

Absently, she almost wishes she'd left the door open.

"Oh, dear god," she murmurs, just this side of guilty. It's a bad idea, saying anything out loud; it opens her vocal cords, and when Britta zeroes in on her clit and slips a finger inside her, Michelle isn't quick enough to hold in a moan.

She gives up on grading papers, but tries to keep the act up anyway, reaching forward to hold up an assignment and keeping her gaze on it. Her eyes skip over the words like they're smudges of ink, but it still feels like she's working, and fuck, the idea of working through Britta going down on her really shouldn't add to her arousal like this.

This is ridiculous. She grabs her pen again, and manages to get through half a paper before she nearly strikes out a whole page by accident when Britta shoves another finger into her, rough enough that Michelle's body gives in of its own volition when Britta's free hand comes under Michelle's thigh and grasps at her ass, pushing Michelle's hips towards the edge of the chair.

Michelle spreads her legs a little wider, the knee over Britta's shoulder nearly sliding off. She clutches the pen in her hand, fist curling around the edge of her desk as Britta sucks harder on her clit. Michelle's lids drop down, eyes rolling back, and she leans back in the chair, letting her hips rock up, meeting the rhythm of Britta's fingers.

She's a little concerned she's going to fall off the chair if her hips shift any further down, but she doesn't move back; she rests her idle hand on Britta's head, hooking locks of hair around her fingers, and she can't help cursing when Britta moans at that, the vibration resonating between her legs and taking her over the edge.

When she opens her eyes, Britta's crawled out from under her desk, but she's still sitting on the floor, stretching and drawing up her knees. Michelle grabs the arms of her chair and props herself up, bringing her hips back in.

Britta says, "The five minutes are up. Way up."

Michelle's tempted to keep grading papers just to spite her, but Britta's chin is wet, and her legs are shaky when she pushes herself up to her feet, and Michelle is not made of stone. She stands, pinning Britta back with her hips until Britta's ass hits the desk, and leans over her, their faces close enough to kiss.

"So how did I do, professor?" Britta whispers, failing to hide her amusement. "Will you reconsider my grade?"

Playing along is definitely the wrong choice, but Michelle goes for it anyway. "I don't know." She speaks quietly, squeezing a hand between their bodies. She taps softly on the waistband of Britta's jeans. "You still seem pretty closed off," she says, and pops the button on Britta's jeans. She drags down the zipper as she adds, "Maybe if you let me open you up."

It takes about two seconds for Britta to crack, snorting a laugh. "This would be incredibly creepy if you were my teacher," she remarks, smirking.

Michelle keeps her tone sober, serious. "Then I guess it's good for both our sakes that I'm not," she says, and slips her hand into Britta's jeans.


End file.
